The hills are alive, awake;
real are the voices raised by
the jaded, stirring trees.
Moderately diminishing against the metropolis,
the watercourse dwindles, creeps up.
It is serene.
It blows out placidly, feeling alone.
Scarcely alive,
drained of boisterous energies,
loosed from a reviving coldness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem